Chapter 3

If any animal approximates human consciousness, it is the common Tabby. Perhaps she embodies some force unknown to, or misunderstood by, mankind. The Chicago _Inter-Ocean_ argues that she does, for we read:

There is never any telling what a cat will do. Everybody who has kept house, or who is keeping house, or who is an inmate of a house that is kept, as all well-regulated houses are, for the partial convenience of the cat, will agree to this proposition.

The cat, to all appearances, as far as any member of the family is able to see, has been put out for the night, and yet she is found to be in at 4 A.M. as usual, pleading with all the inmates, individually and collectively, to have the door opened for her so that she may go out.

On the other hand, she is safely locked in, as far as anybody can see. Witnesses are always willing to testify that they have seen her locked in. Nevertheless, at about 4.30 A.M., she is heard outside under the bedroom windows, pleading as usual to be let in.

Again, the cat has been taken to the river in a flour-sack, and comfortably drowned. The small boy of the family, accompanied by one of the boarders, who has given the small boy a quarter, has seen the bag, with the cat inside of it, sink below the surface.

The news is somehow rumored about the house, and all the boarders go to bed early that night, feeling that there is really more in life than they had any right to hope for. Yet in the morning the voice of that cat is heard on the front door-step, and the cat herself comes in when Mr. Johnson reaches out for his morning paper.

And, again, a terrible noise is heard in the dining-room. It sounds as if the contents of the sideboard had been emptied on the floor. When sufficient time is given for the burglars to escape, the procession comes down-stairs, headed by Mrs. Johnson.

There is not a single thing disturbed in the dining-room or elsewhere, and the cat is sleeping snugly on the best rug. It is always a mystery how the cat makes that kind of noise.

The days of superstition are long since passed. Few are superstitious now, and these are generally the ignorant. But there are very many people in every community who do not understand many things about the cat.

It is not going too far to say that many millions of people who pass for intelligent believe that every cat has two personalities--one that is just an ordinary cat and the other an intangible something that can penetrate solid matter like the X-ray.

This theory would account for the fact that a cat which you have seen run down by an automobile will be found next morning chasing squirrels across the lawn, and for the fact that the cat which you expressed, charges prepaid, to your brother's wife in Trenton, New Jersey, is heard running over the piano-keys in your own house a few nights later.

We are far from knowing everything that is worth while about the cat, much as we may boast of our advancement in general education.

DEFINITIONS OF "HOME."

The golden setting in which the brightest jewel is "mother."

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A world of strife shut out, a world of love shut in.

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An arbor which shades when the sunshine of prosperity becomes too dazzling; a harbor where the human bark finds shelter in time of storm.

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Home is the blossom of which heaven is the fruit.

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Home is a person's estate obtained without injustice, kept without disquietude; a place where time is spent without repentance, and which is ruled by justice, mercy, and love.

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A hive in which, like the industrious bee, youth garners the sweets and memories of life for age to meditate and feed upon.

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The best place for a married man after business hours.

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Home is the coziest, kindliest, sweetest place in all the world, the scene of our purest earthly joys and deepest sorrows.

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The place where the great are sometimes small, and the small often great.

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The father's kingdom, the children's paradise, the mother's world.

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The jewel casket containing the most precious of all jewels--domestic happiness.

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Where you are treated best and grumble most.

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The center of our affections, around which our heart's best wishes twine.

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A popular but paradoxical institution, in which woman works in the absence of man, and man rests in the presence of woman.

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A working model of heaven, with real angels in the form of mothers and wives.

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Having offered a prize for the best definition of "Home," London _Tit-Bits_ recently received more than five thousand answers.

Among those which were adjudged the best were the definitions printed above.

RECESSIONAL.

In 1897 the British Empire celebrated the Diamond Jubilee, as it was called, of Victoria's accession to the throne. She had been queen for sixty years, and in that time the dominion of the flag of Britain had been extended over lands which, at her coronation, were scarcely known except by name. The celebration culminated in a splendid and stately ceremonial which made London appear to be the capital city of the entire world. From out all the length and breadth of the empire came princes, chiefs, nobles, and statesmen of every race, all united under British rule, and vying with each other in homage to their sovereign. So overwhelming were this display and the significance of its splendor that it roused in many minds a feeling of awe bordering almost upon apprehension. Was this greatness not too great? Might it not breed that overweening pride of power which goes before destruction?

This thought sank deep into the impressionable mind of Rudyard Kipling. His genius sought to express in words the idea which came to him--the wish to deprecate that divine disfavor which men have always feared as the punishment of too great prosperity. It was the feeling which made the Greeks and Romans dread the power of Nemesis, the jealousy of the gods. Kipling wrote five stanzas which he entitled "Recessional."

The lines at once were cabled to all parts of the English-speaking world, and they took their place with the classic poems of the English tongue. "Recessional" is indeed a majestic and noble poem--a prayer in verse. Its solemnity and religious fervor are Hebraic. Its mastery of phrase is almost unrivaled. Through it there runs a tone of proud humility which marks the English character, touched with haughtiness even in its supplication. Such a phrase as that which speaks of the "lesser breeds without the Law" contains even a touch of scorn which would be discordant were it not so characteristic of the great conquering race of which to-day Kipling himself has become the unofficial laureate. It is not extravagant to say that no poem written in the last quarter of a century is so sure of immortality.

BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle line, Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart; Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire; Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

Amen.

FROM THE LIPS OF ANANIAS.

While Kipling Makes the Merits of "Unwreckable" and "Impeccable" Lies the Subject of Song, Others Continue to Prefer the Medium of Story.

RUDYARD KIPLING'S LYRIC TO LIES.

_Heading of Chapter VII of "The Naulahka," by Rudyard Kipling and Walcott Balestier. Copyright, 1892, Macmillan & Co._

There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay, When the artist's hand is potting it, There is pleasure in the wet, wet lay, When the poet's hand is blotting it, There is pleasure in the shine of your picture on the line At the Royal Arcade--my; But the pleasure felt in these is as chalk to Cheddar cheese When it comes to a well made Lie, To a quite unwreckable Lie, To a most impeccable Lie! To a water-tight, fire-proof, angle-iron, sunk-hinge, time-lock, steel-faced Lie! Not a private hansom Lie, But a fair and brougham Lie, _Not_ a little place in Tooting, but a country house with shooting and a ring-fence, deer-park Lie.

SOME SNAKE STORIES.

When a boy, in the early days in the lead mines of Wisconsin, I often met pioneers and heard them tell strange stories about hoop-snakes. In one particular they all agreed--the snakes, in pairs, about the 15th of May would come rolling up from Illinois. Then they would disappear, and not be seen again until August. During that month strange sights might be seen on lonely stretches of prairie--hundreds of them playfully chasing one another.

They were a green snake--the males about six and the females five feet long. About four inches from the ends of their tails grew a hard, curved horn, from two to four inches in length.

They were considered the most dangerous snakes in the Northwest.

Wo betide the living thing that crossed their path as they rolled noiselessly over the prairie. I heard an old hunter say he once stood by a lone tree on the prairie and saw a hoop-snake come rolling toward the tree. As it drew near he held his gun right across its path.

When near enough, the snake let go of its tail and struck the metal barrel of the gun, knocking it out of his hand and making it ring like a bell. The snake then stuck its tail into its mouth and went rolling away.

The hunter soon noticed that the gun-barrel began to swell. He watched the gun until it swelled so big it scared him, and in terror he fled over the prairie and never went near the spot again. Years afterward miners prospecting for mineral found an old cannon shaped like a musket-barrel. It was the old gun, grown to be a foot in diameter.--_Correspondence in Chicago Inter-Ocean._

DISCRIMINATING SPARROWS.

An Atchison man planted lettuce, but as fast as it came through the ground the English sparrows ate it off.

He finally got a few small flags and stuck them in the lettuce-bed, and not a sparrow will consent to touch that lettuce as long as Old Glory floats over it.--_Atchison (Kansas) Globe._

A GUN'S SELF-SACRIFICE.

Not long ago an ex-Governor of Michigan, a Cleveland capitalist, and several friends were in the big woods near Turtle Lake, guided by Sam Sampson, a famous hunter and trapper. Sam possesses a gun with a barrel five feet long, but once, according to his story, he had a still longer one.

"It was a wonderful gun," he said to the ex-Governor. "I could kill a b'ar as fur off as I could see 'im, an' that gun was as knowing as a man. If it hadn't been fur that, it would never ha' busted!"

"How did you break it?" asked one of the hunters.

"I strained it t' death," said the old guide soberly. "I was out hunting one day when I seen a buck and seven does a-standin' close onto me. I pulled up old Beetle--that's what I called th' gun--and was jest goin' t' let go when I heard an awful funny noise over my head.

"I looked up 'n' there was more'n ten million wild geese a-sailin' over me. There I was in a predicament. I wanted th' geese 'n' I wanted th' deer.

"At last I aimed at th' geese an' let sliver. Beetle must ha' knowed I wanted both, fur that was th' end of the old gun. The strain on her was too much, an' both barrels busted.

"Th' shot in one of 'em killed the buck, th' shot in th' other killed ten geese, and when Beetle died she kicked so hard I was knocked into a crick. But when I come out my bootlegs was full o' fish. I ain't never seen another sech gun as Beetle."--_Lippincott's Magazine._

A POWERFUL SALVE.

A man in Nebraska has invented a new powerful double-acting salve which shows powers never before exhibited by salves of any kind.

The inventor accidentally cut off the tail of a tame wolf, and, immediately applying some of the salve to the stump, a new tail grew out. Then picking up the old tail, he applied some of the salve to the raw end of that, and a wolf grew out; but he was a wild wolf, and had to be shot.--_Chicago Tribune._

HOW THE PACK WAS PACKED.

A red-faced man was holding the attention of a little group with some wonderful recitals.

"The most exciting chase I ever had," he said, "happened a few years ago in Russia. One night, when sleighing about ten miles from my destination, I discovered to my intense horror that I was being followed by a pack of wolves. I fired blindly into the pack, killing one of the brutes, and to my delight saw the others stop to devour it. After doing this, however, they still came on. I kept on repeating the dose, with the same result, and each occasion gave me an opportunity to whip up my horses. Finally there was only one wolf left, yet on it came, with its fierce eyes glaring in anticipation of a good, hot supper."

Here the man who had been sitting in the corner burst forth into a fit of laughter.

"Why, man," said he, "by your way of reckoning, that last wolf must have had the rest of the pack inside him."

"Ah!" said the red-faced man, without a tremor, "now I remember it did wobble a bit."--_Philadelphia Public Ledger._

A TALL TREE YARN.

Scott Cummins, the poet of Winchester, Woods County, was a cow-puncher in the Northwest many years ago. His outfit came to Snake River one day with three thousand cattle. Cummins, with a poet's license, relates what happened:

"The river was too dangerous for swimming, but after following the bank a short distance the foreman found a giant redwood tree that had fallen across the river. Fortunately the tree was hollow, and, making a chute, they had no trouble in driving the cattle through the log to the other side.

"As the cattle had not been counted for several days, one of the cowboys was stationed to count them as they emerged from the log. The count fell short some three hundred head, but about that time a distant lowing was heard.

"Their surprise may be imagined when on looking about they found that the cattle had wandered off into a hollow limb."--_Kansas City Star._

REMARKABLE ECHOES.

President Murphy, of the Chicago National League Club, told at a baseball dinner a remarkable echo story.

"There was a man," he began, "who had a country home in the Catskills. He was showing a visitor over his grounds one day, and coming to a hilly place, he said:

"'There's a remarkable echo here. If you stand under that rock and shout, the echo answers four distinct times, with an interval of several minutes between each answer.'

"But the visitor was not at all impressed. He said, with a laugh:

"'You ought to hear the echo at my place in Sunapee. Before getting into bed at night I stick my head out of the window and shout, "Time to get up, William!" and the echo wakes me at seven o'clock sharp the next morning.'"--_Detroit Free Press._

Alas, it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.--=Longfellow.=

The Graves of Our Presidents.

While a Very Few Are Marked by Monuments Erected at the Expense of the Nation, Others, Almost Forgotten, Are in a State of Shameful Neglect.

_An original article written for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.

The ingratitude of republics is proverbial, and perhaps no better proof of this fact need be adduced than the manner in which they neglect the graves of illustrious persons who have reflected honor on the national life. We may as well take this criticism directly home to ourselves. In the United States there is nothing to correspond with England's Westminster Abbey, and how many American schoolboys are there who are able to name the burial-places of so many as a dozen of our Presidents, famous statesmen, generals, admirals, and men of letters?

Nearly all the resting-places of our Presidents have been purchased by private means, and in several cases the monuments that mark them have been erected with funds obtained by popular subscription.

Unfortunately, however, many of these spots that should be held in veneration by the citizens of the republic have, from time to time, been suffered to remain in a state of neglect that reflects little credit on the national spirit--and this, too, notwithstanding the proposition to raise the salary of the President of the United States to one hundred thousand dollars per annum and to pension retired Presidents at twenty-five thousand dollars.

George Washington's tomb is situated at some little distance from the mansion at Mount Vernon. Surrounded by sweet briar, trailing arbutus, and other flowers, it is the Mecca of Americans as well as the revered visiting-place of thousands of Europeans. The tomb is of brick, according to Washington's desire. The front is plain, with a wide gateway arching over double iron gates, above which is the inscription upon a plain white marble slab:

Within This Enclosure Rest the Remains of GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON.

The sarcophagi containing the bodies of George and Martha Washington are in the anteroom, behind which is the vault where the bodies of about thirty members of the family repose. On a tablet over the door are the words: "I am the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."

On the sarcophagus of Mrs. Washington is the inscription: "Martha, Consort of Washington; died 22nd of May, 1802; aged 71 years."

That of Washington is ornamented with the United States coat-of-arms upon a draped flag, and bears the all-sufficient word:

WASHINGTON.

John Adams, the second President, rests side by side with his son, John Quincy Adams, under the First Congregational Church, where they worshiped in their native town of Braintree, Massachusetts, now called Quincy. The tomb is in the front part of the cellar, under the porch. It is fourteen feet square, and is made of large blocks of granite, slightly faced. The door is formed by a granite slab, seven feet by three.

The bodies of the two Presidents and their wives are enclosed in leaden caskets and are placed in stone coffins, each hewn from a single piece of marble. In the church, on the right side of the pulpit, as seen from the pews, is a memorial tablet surmounted by a life-sized bust of John Adams. Below the bust is a Latin line:

Libertatem, Amicitiam, Fidem, Retinebis.

Above the tablet are the words:

Thy Will Be Done

The tablet is inscribed in two columns, the first testifying that "Beneath these walls are deposited the mortal remains of John Adams, son of John and Susanna (Boylston) Adams, second President of the United States." At great length it eulogizes his life and says of his death that "On the Fourth of July, 1826, he was summoned to the independence of immortality and to the judgment of his God."

The second column is inscribed to his wife with similar feeling.

John Quincy Adams's last resting-place is necessarily described with that of his father, John Adams. On the other side of the pulpit from the one where stands the tablet and bust of the elder Adams is another similarly dedicated to John Quincy Adams and his wife. It records that

Near this place reposes all that could die of John Quincy Adams.

After dwelling on his official achievements, it refers to him as:

A Son worthy of his Father, a Citizen shedding Glory on his Country, a Scholar ambitious to advance Mankind, this Christian sought to walk humbly in the sight of God.

The second column of the tablet similarly commemorates the virtues of his "partner for fifty years."

Thomas Jefferson's grave is at Monticello, the place of his residence. It is a little way from his old house, in a thick growth of woods, surrounded by about thirty graves, which are enclosed by a brick wall ten feet high. Until 1883 it was a neglected spot, desecrated and ruined by vandal relic-hunters. The mound was trodden level with the ground, and the inscription on the coarse granite obelisk was beaten off and unreadable except for the dates of birth and death.

In 1878 a movement was made in Congress to remedy this condition, but it was frustrated by the owner of the place, who claimed the grave and the right of way to it. An understanding was reached in 1883, and an appropriation of ten thousand dollars made for the erection of a suitable monument.

W.W. Corcoran, of Washington, endowed a professorship of natural history at the University of Virginia on condition that the university should take care of the grave. It is a place of exquisite natural beauty and grandeur, and is now marked by a fitting monument, inscribed as was the old one, a rough sketch of which was found. The inscription is as follows:

Here was buried Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence, of the Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom, and Father of the University of Virginia. Born April 2 (O.S.), 1743; died July 4, 1826.

Jefferson's death preceded that of John Adams by only one hour.

James Madison is buried at his beautiful home, Montpelier, four miles from Orange, Virginia. An attractive lawn of about sixty acres surrounds the brick mansion, and in the center of this is an enclosure, one hundred feet square, fenced in by a brick wall some five feet high. In this enclosure is the grave of Madison. Three other graves are near it, one of them being Mrs. Madison's.

Over the dead President's grave is a mound, from the top of which rises a granite obelisk twenty feet high.

Near the base are inscribed the words:

MADISON.

Born March 16, 1751.

A smaller monument beside it bears the record, "In memory of Dolly Payne, wife of James Madison; born May 20th, 1772; died July 8, 1849."

James Monroe was the fifth President of the United States, and was the third out of the five to die on July 4. For twenty-seven years after his death his body rested at New York, where he had died, but on July 4, 1858, it was removed, by order of the General Assembly of Virginia, to Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond, and re-interred there on July 5.

A brick and granite vault, built five feet under ground on an eminence overlooking the beautiful valley of the James River, now holds the body. On a polished block of Virginia marble, eight feet by four, stands a large granite sarcophagus bearing a brass plate with this inscription: